gnize me. I conjure your majesty--"

"Hold your tongue!" said the king, between two swallows of his ptisan.
"You split our head!"

Tristan l'Hermite advanced and pointing to Gringoire,--

"Sire, can this one be hanged also?"

This was the first word that he had uttered.

"Phew!" replied the king, "I see no objection."

"I see a great many!" said Gringoire.

At that moment, our philosopher was greener than an olive. He perceived
from the king's cold and indifferent mien that there was no other
resource than something very pathetic, and he flung himself at the feet
of Louis XI., exclaiming, with gestures of despair:--

"Sire! will your majesty deign to hear me. Sire! break not in thunder
over so small a thing as myself. God's great lightning doth not bombard
a lettuce. Sire, you are an august and, very puissant monarch; have pity
on a poor man who is honest, and who would find it more difficult to
stir up a revolt than a cake of ice would to give out a spark! Very
gracious sire, kindness is the virtue of a lion and a king. Alas! rigor
only frightens minds; the impetuous gusts of the north wind do not make
the traveller lay aside his cloak; the sun, bestowing his rays little by
little, warms him in such ways that it will make him strip to his shirt.
Sire, you are the sun. I protest to you, my sovereign lord and master,
that I am not an outcast, thief, and disorderly fellow. Revolt and
brigandage belong not to the outfit of Apollo. I am not the man to fling
myself into those clouds which break out into seditious clamor. I am
your majesty's faithful vassal. That same jealousy which a husband
cherisheth for the honor of his wife, the resentment which the son hath
for the love of his father, a good vassal should feel for the glory
of his king; he should pine away for the zeal of this house, for
the aggrandizement of his service. Every other passion which should
transport him would be but madness. These, sire, are my maxims of state:
then do not judge me to be a seditious and thieving rascal because my
garment is worn at the elbows. If you will grant me mercy, sire, I will
wear it out on the knees in praying to God for you night and morning!
Alas! I am not extremely rich, 'tis true. I am even rather poor. But
not vicious on that account. It is not my fault. Every one knoweth that
great wealth is not to be drawn from literature, and that those who are
best posted in good books do not always have a great fire in winter.